


Blood and Flesh

by Luthienberen



Series: July Writing Prompts 2019 - Watson's Woes [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Gore, Horror, Vampires, sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: Supping from your friend isn't wrong per se in Watson's opinion. After all, he must survivesomehowand criminals aren't the same as tasting your dearest friend's blood.





	Blood and Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for July Writing Prompts at watsons_woes [dreamwidth], Prompt **Day 21 - I’ve Got a Secret:** John Watson reveals a secret he's been hiding his entire life. Bonus point if the secret is that Watson is a vampire. 
> 
> I had Burke!Watson in my head when writing this, but it could fit Canon too. I decided to try a darker Watson and was surprised where this went, but it was fun to write nonetheless!
> 
> _Heed the warnings folk._

* * *

Watson was a grateful man. How could he not be when fairy tales and magic had been relegated to superstitious nonsense?

Hail enlightenment! Praise be  _ science _ .

Few seriously considered to use science to explore the "unknown". Vampirism fell under this umbrella of silence. Consequently, Watson was having a gay time of life...well,  _ death _ if you wished to be pettily accurate.

A vampire as a doctor was the perfect profession once control had been mastered - and he had  _ centuries _ of practise: when legends and gods and goddesses walked Gaia; from when the Romans had formed an empire and fallen, to when the plains of Europe were alive with strife, blood spilling on grass and leaf, or staining the snow in the Tatra mountains or dying the clear waters of once beautiful and serene lakes a pale red.

Those were the times when belief in fairy tales and myth was vibrant so care must be taken. Now belief was dulled, with few clinging on to superstition and ever vigilant.  


Yet even when mortals believed so fiercely and feared so ardently there he had been and endured, plying his trade, constantly changing face until the British Empire called and he answered. To dust and gunfire to dank deary London; to a set of rooms full of tentative hope and friendship, until mortal love and cheer suffused these lodgings and his cold body.

Even living with such an observant man he obtained blood easily enough. A villain or two, their bodies joining the refuse of the East End. Also, far more exhilarating: small measures of blood from obliging women or men caught in ecstasy.

Watson's favourite though was sneaking Holmes' blood, when the detective sought his assistance to sleep.

Just as now in fact.

***

His dear friend's breathing gradually evened, his heart pumping more slowly and his temperature dropping, denoting a deeper sleep.

Relieved, Watson tilted his head back to listen.  


Beneath the floorboards Watson easily discerned the breathing of Mrs Hudson. She slept a peaceful sleep, her heart steady and strong. Good.  


Despite losing most of his concern towards humanity beyond ensuring they remained oblivious to his existence, and a certain level of healthiness, Watson still cared for their landlady.

They had shared too much for him to desire feasting on her flesh or drinking her blood. The other servants were kept safe from his desires by his need for secrecy and to not make Mrs Hudson's life more difficult with attempting to hire reliable, discerning and loyal help.

These days - and as long as his association with Holmes and Mrs Hudson persevered - Watson could only indulge in devouring the flesh of criminals he had trapped, and even then he must be cautious.

Fortunately, his knowledge and skill as a doctor over the centuries assisted in his "perverse" activities, (or perverse in the opinion of the humans he fed on, which really was a fair enough sentiment).

Even with the majority of his time spent dashing to and fro with Holmes he remained a well tuned doctor, watchful of the latest developments.

Holmes…

Opening his eyes, Watson looked down at his sleeping companion. Warmth filled his cold breast. Watson stroked back Holmes black hair with a tender hand, his other splayed gently on Holmes' chest.

Through the thin fabric of the cotton nightshirt he could feel the rise and fall of life into and out of his friend, as well as hear the detective's heart thumping.

Oh how he loved Holmes! Yet how horrified and repulsed his friend would be if he knew what Watson  _ was _ and what Watson  _ did _ to him (and others...Watson supposed eating his fellow humans might upset Holmes).

Still, he had to do what he could to survive. Just like humans ate cattle, vampires devoured humans - flesh as well as blood. He merely loved his friend sufficiently to only draw enough to dampen his hunger, rather than eat him whole - though wouldn't that be delicious?

Watson permitted himself one more moment of savouring the hot touch of the skin on Holmes' forehead, the slick glide through still oiled hair and the movement of living lungs, before extinguishing the lamps scattered about Holmes' room.  


Only a single candle now burned, screened from spilling light from under the door by Watson's discarded coat, waistcoat and shirt. The sitting room door had a blanket already.

Bare chested, Watson sat on the chair as close as possible to Holmes, knees bumping the bed.  


He placed a metal dish (non-silver naturally) under the appropriate section, adjusting Holmes' arm so any missed blood would flow into the dish and not stain the sheets. Selecting his sharpest scalpel, he seterlised the area, (no infection necessary thank you), and felt for a delicious juicy vein.

The knife slashed cleanly and precisely and Watson watched with glee as red blood flowed. The scent was intoxicating, the copper tang springing free once the blade broke the skin.

Bending down, Watson extended his tongue and lapped like a cat.  


_ Oh, it was bliss. _ Even with the tang of the morphia he had injected the blood was delicious.

Savouring the coppery flavour, with subtle overtones of the medical drug, Watson finally clamped his mouth over the wound and drank.

_ Life _ poured through him as he absorbed not just Holmes' blood, but a portion of his  _ soul _ ; of his friend's very life source. Incubus, vampires, demons...so many they numbered, yet they all could touch the burning font of universal life welling in each soul - human and animal.

Hearing Holmes' heart struggle as his blood and life was drained was a reassuring backdrop, while the rush of blood through Holmes into his mouth and through dead veins was a private connection that Watson relished and revered.

As Holmes weakened he gave himself to Watson, so that the doctor may be restored. Holmes' very soul brushed him. To be so close to his dear friend was beyond all treasures to Watson, who had been so alone for year upon year, century upon century, one empire to the next.

As Holmes gasped for breath and his body jerked, Watson knew he must stop...for now.

Licking the wound site, Watson allowed his saliva to heal the slice in Holmes' skin. His saliva would also heal Holmes on the inside. A few days of herbal potions strengthened with all the sorcery Watson possessed would restore Holmes' vigour.

He nuzzled once at the healing flesh nipping at it fondly and shuddering at the taste. Then he started cleaning in earnest. He removed the dish and drank what blood was present, licking the metal clean. Still, he would scrub and sterilise it properly later - the same with the scalpel.

Arranging Holmes comfortably, Watson took his pulse - sluggish but strong. The morphia was luckily not counteracting his actions. It's effect would be further minimised by his herbal brew. Selecting the right bottle, Watson forced a compliant Holmes to swallow, relieved when he witnessed it taking effect.

His friend's heart beat a little stronger and his sleep evened into a healing one. Satisfied, Watson collected his garments and dressed.

He exited Holmes’ room by the sitting room entrance, taking the blanket with him. There he silently lit the prepared charcoal to burn the incense. The wonderful aroma of myrrh filled the room

Later Watson would say to a confused Holmes and landlady that he had been restless and myrrh reminded him of his childhood Catholic friend. All nonsense but even Holmes wouldn't investigate, bored by the lack of mystery and deduction.

Thus armed, Watson headed to a window in their sitting room and drew the sash. He was covered in darkness and looked out with no fear. The lamps were lit and the night clear, but not for long.

Thrilled at the power streaming through him, Watson stretched his arms out to his sides and began to chant. As he did the world outside transformed.

The smog of London, occasionally held at bay by some miracle, now breathed once more. Yellow tenderials crept through the streets as if they were soil for its roots.

As Watson waved the smouldering charcoal the incense suffused the room with a haze. As it thickened so did the fog outside until the lamps were pale glimmers of starlight which gradually blinked out. The moon pierced the night no longer and Watson felt relief at being hidden from Artemis' gaze.

Ending his chant with a humming piece of song which wound its way through all the house's inhabitants and snaked dreams both grotesque and wonderful into their minds, Watson considered it a job well done. All would sleep heavily now, unable to escape sleep even if terrified by their conjured demons, though Watson was skilled sufficiently to ensure that when it became too much the dream would pause, permitting a temporary reprieve.

Being a vampire was fine.  


However, the ones who lasted, who endured, sought knowledge and wisdom from all cultures and social standing.

Sorcery and witchcraft were essential as was a rational sensible mind. Friendship was a bonus, if perilous for only three fates awaited those friendships.

Firstly, loss for the vampire as their friend withered of old age and went beyond the veil of life to the realm of true death, where they could not follow.

Or secondly, the vampire tried turning their friend who would either fight and destroy one or the other, or both.

Third, the transformation was successful and your friend either loved or hated you for it; the later ended in destruction for both or one of the parties.

Watson had not yet decided which path he would follow with Holmes.  


So, still humming, Watson returned his items to their proper secret places, with a few obviously positioned for why should a doctor hide his Gladstone? Then, with locked door and sprawled naked on his bed on top of a protective layer of blankets, Watson retrieved his prize.

That criminal really ought to have come quietly. Oh well, Lestrade had believed Watson when the doctor had said he needed to use his scalpel in defence. Holmes had been too distraught and angry over Watson's "injuries" to examine Watson’s excuses too closely.  


Consequently, it had been easy to conceal his prize: a hunk of human flank congealed with blood. Delighted, Watson started eating his prize.  


Half-way through, with a belly luxuriating in its growing fullness, and fingers and hands slick with blood and flesh, Watson decided to try transforming Holmes.

He had a few years to manipulate his beloved friend to seeing his point of view. After all, what could be better than spending the eons with your dearest friend by your side?

**Author's Note:**

> Morphia is the old-fashioned term for morphine.


End file.
